


advance, retreat in three fourths beat

by lady_peony



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Confessions, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 07:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21193649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/pseuds/lady_peony
Summary: Hubert participates in a duel. Ferdinand objects to this.





	advance, retreat in three fourths beat

**Author's Note:**

> did u know rapiers are a sword that exists in the three houses universe even if they are only available to certain characters?? i decided to take some handwavey liberties with that and run amok with it
> 
> (i also adamantly believe that hubert would have the skills of an assassin class even without the professor assigning blade homework to him)

"I'm not certain of these numbers," Ferdinand says, at Hubert's side. "The matter of the city scholarship funds has been settled, but if we are to present the best proposal for establishing the village schools, we need to ensure that the land survey figures are accurate."

"Hmm. Let me see that."

Ferdinand smooths out the parchment with his right hand, moves it over to Hubert's waiting fingers.  
  
He spots a flash of pale skin between the edge of Ferdinand's glove and the cuff of his sleeve. A speck of ink, there, just over a vein on his right wrist.

It would be a simple matter to reach out, to swipe it away and mar the thumb of his own white gloves.

Ferdinand drops his hand and Hubert pulls his eyes back to the papers.

"Trace back the records from two decades earlier, for that particular territory," Hubert says. "There was a split in that minor noble house in that period; one took to the forest, and the other assumed control over all grazing pastures."

"Ah." Ferdinand grins, easy and bright, like spark to tinder. "Whatever would we do without your impeccable memory, Hubert?"

Hubert concedes to the compliment with a dip of his chin. "All I must do is hand the information to you. Your duty is to take it to the field tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Are you underestimating your own abilities? We have sparred before, and facing you on the battlefield is not for the faint-hearted."

Ferdinand's elbow brushes over Hubert's arm, his hand reaching for the inkwell at Hubert's right.

Hubert breathes in, shakes away whatever retort he had meant to shoot back about their sparring record. Should he find it ridiculous, how often he and Ferdinand saw each other these days?

It shouldn't be. This...situation wasn't a surprise, the back of his mind whispers. And Ferdinand's company, a year into Her Majesty's new reign, had been far more than merely congenial.

"Should we talk to them, before finishing up the final draft?"

Hubert turns to see the full force of Ferdinand's eyes on him, concentrated and focused on his reply.

He nods, assuming that Ferdinand had some practical plan he wanted to see through.

"Very well. I will go see if Dorothea has an hour to spare, or perhaps—Mercedes? She may have some ingenious insights about any logistical issues."

"It's not a bad idea. You should go find them, before the hour is too late." Hubert waves his hand briefly as a dismissal, looks away from Ferdinand to fix his eyes on the treasury numbers in front of him.

"Hubert?"

Unexpectedly, a brief warmth by his ear. Ferdinand's face tilts to the side, close to his.

He doesn't jump. Nor does he blush. Hubert refuses to.

There is no danger here. He has been around Ferdinand long enough to recognize his presence at his back, versus that of an assassin in the shadows, or the tell-tale swish-hiss of a sniper's arrow.

"Yes?"

"You will promise to eat something for dinner, at a reasonable hour, won't you?" His voice is soft, as if he was coaxing one of the stable horses onto a new trail. "And no, a pot of coffee and half a stale roll is not dinner."

"Saints forbid, Ferdinand, that I waste away under your watchful eye. Yes. I promise. Are you satisfied?"

Hubert senses, more than sees, Ferdinand's smile in half profile, lips curling up his cheek.

"Immensely."

The pressure lifts from Hubert's side. He turns his head to spot a few bright strands of Ferdinand's hair pull away from his shoulder, to sway back into place near the polished buttons of Ferdinand's coat.

Ferdinand leaves, and Hubert turns back to work, manages to forget about the warmth of Ferdinand's arm and chin, leaning against him.

* * *

  
The next day, the first hour of the meeting goes well, albeit almost too predictably for Hubert's taste.

Her Majesty, Emperor Edelgard sits draped in bright scarlet and flawless poise, and the Professor at her back. Hubert is sitting at a table, close to Edelgard's left side, with Ferdinand on her other side. A small number of other trusted Adrestrian cabinet members, their servants, their scribes, are seated in deliberate places around the long council table.

Hubert scans the small crowd of assembled nobles before them in their own seats, notes down names, titles, territories, allegiances from each face.

The room isn't safe. He isn't relaxed enough to admit that. But the guards vetted by him and Shamir, stationed at the openings of the council room, had gone some way to alleviating a small measure of concern.

Edelgard nods as one of the nobles finishes speaking, and moves her hand. She flicks her glance to her right. Hubert looks too, to see Ferdinand stand to his feet.

Without an ounce of hesitation, he launches into his opening points, the numbers, the outlined plans for the proposed schools. His eyes are bright, his hand movements as expressive as his intonations.

It's almost captivating, in a certain light, Hubert admits.

Ferdinand speaks the same way he fights. Swift and sure with his words as his hands with a lance, precisely aiming to the point, voice weaving around counterarguments as gracefully as he does when riding on the field.

Speechcraft is an arena that he can concede to Ferdinand. Hubert can be deliberate, piercing too, with his words when he so chooses. But his mouth is more suited to whispering shadows of a blade beneath his tongue, murmured bloodthirst wrapped oh so prettily in the glitter and silk and wine-darkened smiles of the power-hungry and petty-minded.

Unlike Hubert, Ferdinand draws people in, each word glinting with sincerity like true coin.

"And that," Ferdinand says, "is what we present to you today, ladies and gentlemen. Your Majesty. A small proposal, and a greater hope, for the betterment of Fodlan." A half-bow, and he lifts his head. From his position, Hubert can see his eyelashes lower for a heartbeat, before his eyes flicker open again. His lashes are red-gold in the light, red-gold like his hair.

His glance slides to Hubert. Warmth and excitement in his eyes, cheeks flushed. Something conspiratorial in his look.

_Watch me. Did I not do well?_

Hubert lets his mouth tug into a half-smile, then tilts his head towards Ferdinand the merest inch. This much, he will allow.

Ferdinand returns the smile, and sits.

"Now," Her Majesty says, "if there are any arguments against the Prime Minister's proposal, now is the time we will hear them."

A chair scrapes across stone as a man stands.

He is not tall. Looks perhaps to be in his early forties, give or take a few years. His hair, a deep brown with reddish strands, is combed in a side part, with gray creeping in at the edges. The rest of his face is clean shaven, under an upturned nose and dark eyes.

"Prime Minister Aegir," the man says, with a bow, "if I understand, you would order each noble house to give up a major portion of each territory for the building of these village schools? I must ask: would this not present a burden to determining the inheritances of our future scions? Would it not make the most financial sense to maintain that portion for farmland or other profitable trade? The villagers, if they have the aptitude, may go to the church teachers or the visiting instructors that come after harvest season as they always have."

Something strikes Hubert with unease upon seeing the wrinkle in the man's brow as he speaks.  
  
Viscount Hronn. Head of a minor noble house, settled in a mountainous area by the coastline. A distaff branch of House Aegir some decades back, with ties by marriage to House Gerth. The house did what they could to maintain their wealth, primarily through the export of stone for Enbarr's buildings and other construction.

He was not powerful enough for Lady Edelgard to sweep away during those first careful steps towards her rule. Neither had he been a terrible head; he treated most of his people with as fair a hand as he felt they deserved, although he was known to be a strict stickler for hierarchy and the responsibilities expected of each person's station.

A second cousin, Ferdinand had once said to Hubert, though he was much older than I, old enough for me to call him uncle. He helped teach me my sums one summer, when they visited my family on our estate.

Distantly, Hubert traces the memorized lineage of the Adrestrian houses in his mind. If Lady Edelgard had not confiscated the Aegir lands from the previous Duke, and Ferdinand had declined to step up and manage them, the inheritance may very well have fallen to von Hronn.

"Yes," Ferdinand says, "while it is true there will be a small decrease in the house's finances, we believe the benefits to the people under each house will be worth it in years to come. A knight would not dare dream of missing a week of sword training and expect to grow strong; should not the citizens of Fodlan have that same benefit for their education, if they could learn day by day?"

"Prime Minister," Viscount Hronn says, "you surely cannot mean to compare the humble talents of a simple village farm child with those of the admirable Imperial knights?" He shakes his head, his disbelief evident in his sour frown. "So. So. This is where the Empire is headed. Callow minds leading without the guidance of wiser heads, throwing aside centuries of long-enduring traditions for untested ideals."

Ferdinand still smiles, though Hubert notices that he has lifted his chin, his eyes sharp, edged like a cut crystal. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand your meaning."

"After the end of House Aegir, this is the path you would turn to, for all noble houses? To do away with the achievements and holdings of your noble grandparents and great-grandparents, to cast away your mother's wishes, your father's? One would wonder what your father would say, if he could see what you had done with this post."

The tone is not malevolent, but the words land in the room like a physical blow.

Ferdinand's face turns white.

Around Hubert, whispers sprout across the room, flickers of flame on dry grass. Did Viscount Hronn not know what Duke Aegir had done? He might have; he might have not. Some charges of the corrupt nobles' crimes were trickier to bring to light than others. But while Duke Aegir had a reputation that was far from flattering, neither did the other heads shun him entirely from their presence.

This sort of matter would require a light touch, delicate discretion.

So, why is he on his feet? Where is he walking to?

The glove from Hubert's hand falls against the stone floor, no louder than a whisper.

All eyes turn to him then. Away from Ferdinand.

"Minister Vestra. What is the meaning of this?"

"von Hronn," Hubert says slowly, without the expected courtesy of his title. Something in him burns cold like melted metal, struck and twisted between the jaws of a forge. "With such an admirable regard for tradition, you cannot fail to recognize what this means?" His voice lowers, nearly to a hiss. "After such an insult to a member of Her Majesty's cabinet, I am allowed to request a duel, is it not?"

"But—I had meant no—"

"Time and weapon are of your choosing. Though, if Her Majesty would allow it here, there isn't any point in putting it off, hmm?"

"I will allow it." Edelgard's voice pitches across the room behind Hubert, unwavering and unhesitating.

Hubert feels Ferdinand's gaze behind his head. He doesn't turn back to look.

"Your weapon, if you would." Hubert's voice is all politeness.

Viscount Hronn's face flickers briefly with panic, before his hand lands at his hip. "Swords."

The sword would not be Hubert's first choice.

However.

One did not fight in a war for five years, his throat hoarse from shouted orders and spell after spell after spell, teeth aching from a glancing hit by a gauntlet, up to his knees in mud and guts of his battalion and enemies, without learning something about weapons.

One did not study under the Professor, with her cool mercury-glass gaze and mercenary-trained battle instincts, without learning something about weapons.

One did not grow as the heir to House Vestra, the left hand, the loyal vassal, the spymaster of the Emperor, without learning something about weapons.

His hand lowers to his own blade at his side.

One of the castle servants steps up to the viscount, whispers to him before he turns to Hubert. "Viscount Hronn would like to ask: what are the conditions of the duel?"

"First blood," Hubert says. "Or until one of us pleads for mercy."

Now, Hubert looks back at Ferdinand, just for a glance. Wide eyes, golden and fixed on Hubert. His hands are clenched tightly in front of him, knuckles prominent against the covering of his gloves.

Hubert and von Hronn bow, withdraw their blades, and take up the proper stances.

It begins.

von Hronn lunges forward first, which Hubert parries.

Right side, low guard.

Left swing, high guard.

Two steps forward. One back.

A sidestep, away from another slashing attack.

No other sounds intrude, save for the lightest clang of their blades, the scuffle of their feet over the floor, advancing and evading.

His opponent's focus is lacking.

Despite the initial enthusiasm of his first attack, there is the shine of sweat on von Hronn's temples, visible even with Hubert's distance from him.

He didn't fight directly, during the war, Hubert remembers vaguely. His territory had been far from the border campaigns, and he was the type of head more accustomed to giving desk orders than venturing onto the field himself.

Their blades hit, cross, the swish of their blades stopping simultaneously.

Hubert drops his shoulder, just enough to disengage with a rasp of metal.

A slash, incoming to his right.

Hubert's reach is longer. He deflects.

Careful, careful now with the grip.

A drop of sweat slides from Hubert's palm down his sleeve. He should finish this soon.

A sudden leap forward from von Hronn, his teeth gritted, surprises him.

Hubert almost stumbles.

But he takes in a sharp inhale, regains his balance.

The shine of the blade, aiming for his ribs.

He lets his feet move, his arm following.

von Hronn's eyes widen.

A faint sting against the side of Hubert's hand, catching against the edge of the rapier, but his own blade carries through.

"Well," Hubert says.

The edge of his blade rests lightly, just against the left side of von Hronn's throat.

A clang follows, as von Hronn's fingers drops his own sword to the ground.

"I—I—"

"Something you wish to say? By all means, don't keep us waiting. I'm not known to be a patient man."

"I yield."

Hubert is tempted to keep his blade there, dig it in deeper just for another second or two. He holds it steady.

"You know what you must do."

"No. No." von Hronn looks as if he wishes to shake his head, then thinks better of it. "What is it that you want?"

Hubert withdraws his blade, folds his hands behind his back. He tips his head down, summoning all the disdain he feels to his eyes. "A full formal apology, written to the Prime Minister Aegir."

The viscount nods, expression miserable. The attention of their audience lifts from Hubert's back once they hear his words, witness the viscount's acquiescence.

Behind him, he hears Her Majesty dismiss the rest of the cabinet, the murmurs of noble's servants scurrying off to prepare coaches for departure.

The noise of the rest of the room lowers by waves, as the crowd empties out of the doors. Hubert turns on his heel, heads to Emperor Edelgard.

"Hubert," she says, once he lifts up from his bow. "I think that's about all we will get done for today, don't you?" A smile slants across her lips, and she folds her fingers lightly on his elbow, pushes him forward towards the door. "You should go take a rest."

Hubert nods, and Edelgard heads out, the Professor and the Emperor's guards following.  
  
Before she steps out though, the Professor looks at him once, and mouths, silently, "The infirmary."

Well. If the Professor insists. He has no doubt that she would not hesitate to ask Edelgard to visit his rooms and drag him there, if he doesn't go.

(If Hubert had turned his head before stepping from the room, he might have seen Ferdinand behind him make a motion in the air as if to reach for his shoulder, before dropping his hand to his own side without making contact, his fingers curling into a loose fist).

* * *

The infirmary is a quiet place. The healers had departed to the dining hall after seeing to Hubert, as it had been the hour for their evening meal.

Hubert is grateful for it.

His right hand had been cleaned efficiently, a few stray threads from his glove washed away from the wound. A brush of antiseptic, and bandaged neatly too, a far cry from the carefully-rationed medical supplies they relied on a mere year before.

He closes his eyes briefly. Calculates if he could take a short rest, before turning back to the waiting reports on his desk.

"Hubert?"

He knows who that is. "Come in, if you must."

Ferdinand enters, one hand running through his hair, expression far from pleased.  
"I brought you something."

Hubert raises an eyebrow, and Ferdinand narrows his eyes. "Dinner. Did you think I would forget?"

"Oh. You can put it over—there." His hand rises, waves at the table next to him.

Ferdinand, if possible, looks even more aggrieved than he did before. "Your hand!"

Oops. He had forgotten.

The covered plate lands on the table and Ferdinand sits, unasked, by Hubert's side on the bed, his eyes glancing to the bandage. "Was that from—?"

"I was aware of the risks. This wasn't the worst outcome."

"I do not understand," Ferdinand says, and shakes his head, his hair swaying with the motion. "But you must have had some reason for it. Why?"

"Oh? Was my reasoning not clear to you? There would be three that I can count, so far."

"Not at all. Please. If you would explain."

Hubert holds up a finger. "Reason one. Among Her Majesty's cabinet, who among us is the eldest?"

Ferdinand moves his lips, inaudibly murmuring names under his breath before he looks up. "Me, you, the interim advisers, the temporary committee heads—it would be down to either you or the Professor, I would say. The other heads from"—a fraction of a pause—"before the war are still overseeing some repairs and rebuilding of their respective territories and are not necessarily available to attend every meeting."

"Yes." Hubert tilts his head, props his uninjured hand under his chin. "What do you suppose would happen to every meeting hereafter if all of us had to fend off constant questioning of our abilities due to our youth? Looking only at our ages, but not our true skills, mind. "

Ferdinand taps a finger to his lips, thoughtful. "Ah. Like a red herring thrown amidst a tangle of alley cats. It would be distracting, difficult to move things forward."

"Second," Hubert says, "Her Majesty gave her permission. She knows my current combat abilities, and if there truly was any danger, as loath as I am to admit, the Professor may have advised her to act differently."

"But I could have been—"

"Yes, Ferdinand. Facing you on the battlefield is not for the faint-hearted either. As I can attest firsthand." Hubert keeps his voice matter-of-fact. "It still stands that certain aspects of my...reputation can more easily endure whispers than yours. If we want your proposal to succeed, having you fight von Hronn would muddy the waters, draw away attention from our aim."

"Isn't that unfair to you, though, Hubert?"

"Worried about me?"

"Do you expect me not to? You do so much important work, despite whatever is attributed to your reputation, and I have never known you to be careless with any of your duties, no matter how small."

A twinge of warmth blooms in his chest. For a moment, Hubert has the impulse to ask Ferdinand to repeat his words.

"And what is the third?"

Hubert blinks slowly. Focuses on the sound of Ferdinand's voice. "The third?"

"The third reason you had mentioned."

He did say that, didn't he?

"The third reason," Hubert starts, and stiffens his shoulders.

Ferdinand had picked up Hubert's hand, his head bending over to examine the bandage. "You will have another scar now."

Ferdinand's thumb skirts around the bandage, up from the curve of Hubert's palm to his first knuckle. His fingers, Hubert knows, are undoubtedly calloused from years of handling lances, reins and bits and saddles, but his touch is light. Gentle.

Hubert breathes out, the heat of Ferdinand's grasp palpable in the edges where his bandage wraps around skin. He's aware of the lightest points of pressure from Ferdinand's fingers, under his palm and wrist. He wills himself to stay still, to ignore the shivers whispering through his veins.

He swallows. Manages to pull up words to his tongue. "Yes, it will scar. What of it? That happens when one sees battle, you know."

"I would not have lost my temper so easily with Viscount Hronn. I believe you would know that. So why—?"

"I didn't like it."

Ferdinand's hand stills. "Was it any worse than what others have said about me before?"

"You are dear to me. Did you suppose I would stand idly by if you were attacked?"

Oh._ Oh._ He had said what he thought, without quite meaning to.

"What?"

Hubert turns his head away, tries to will his legs to stand, to walk away from the bed. He doesn't intend to apologize for what he said, but this isn't a conversation he think he can tackle, not right now, with his thoughts in disarray and Ferdinand's hand over his.

Ferdinand removes his hand from Hubert's.

Relief, disappointment. He doesn't know which one he feels more.

But instead of going away, as Hubert expects, there's warmth on the back of Hubert's neck, his head. Ferdinand's hand holding steady there, not restraining, but not releasing him.

Ferdinand's face turns close to his, his forehead tipped forward against Hubert's own. His eyes are serious, and almost pleading, like they held a question that was long-held and long-feared. "Did you speak truly, Hubert?"

In the air between them, a scent drifts like bright citrus, a hint of lavender. Perhaps from the soap that Ferdinand uses on his hair.

He can go, if he wishes to. He can lie, say no, say that he valued him as a close friend and colleague only, but only so far. He can pull away from Ferdinand, and see him only during their planning sessions and tea breaks, as they always have, and Ferdinand would accept it.

But beneath all that lingers an even stronger curiosity. He does not wish to leave until he discovers what Ferdinand wants to say, hear out what could bring that sort of expression onto his face.

He stares back at Ferdinand, refusing to flinch from his stare, and nods an inch. "I did."

Soft surprise sweeps over his face, like a passing breeze. Then, decisiveness, coalescing into a sharp glint in his eyes.

Ferdinand's lips press together once and opens. A puff of breath against Hubert's cheek as Ferdinand exhales, and he speaks, his words soft and unfaltering. "I like you. Perhaps more than is wiser to. Perhaps more than I ought. But that is the truth of the matter." A pause, and his voice goes even softer. "Please, believe me when I say that I would not wish for you to suffer any unnecessary injuries on my account."

Silence.

What little hold that Hubert had on his words is gone, whisked away in the echo of Ferdinand's voice.

Ferdinand looks at him, a flush spreading over his face. Obvious for any and all to see, especially when he is this close. "That—that is all I had to say. Good night, Hubert." This, Ferdinand whispers, a hushed farewell near the curve of Hubert's ear.

He draws back, and the bed creaks slightly when he stands.

He's going.

_He's going._

"Ferdinand."

Stiff fabric wrinkles beneath Hubert's hand.

Ferdinand turns, and they both look down, spotting at the same moment Hubert's fingers grasping tightly, tightly on the cuff of Ferdinand's sleeve.

Ferdinand is still standing, still too far away.

Hubert pulls down.

Ferdinand bends to one knee, drops forward willingly.

Their mouths press together, fierce and intent, inescapable as a star following another's orbit.

It isn't gentle, not like the way Ferdinand was touching him before. The heat of it is sharp, sweet against the cooling chill of the night air.

The slight taste of salt, and beneath that, the fragrant whispers of the fruit tea that Ferdinand favors. Ferdinand is close, close and within reach, his hands on Hubert's shoulders, the folds of Hubert's cape creasing in their grip.

"It wasn't unnecessary." Hubert says, after they break apart. His hand has found its way to the side of Ferdinand's jaw, acutely aware of the pulse thudding beneath his fingers.

Ferdinand looks stunned. His eyes are bright, like the flash of a match before it lights a wick, his chest rising and falling as if he had hurried a long distance to get here. "All right," he says, and his mouth curves up, irrepressible, elated, all things that Hubert is sure must be reflected in his own expression. "All right. I believe you."

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to these posts for research  
i. [swordfighting for fic writers](https://clockadile.tumblr.com/post/154019302015/sword-fighting-for-fic-writers-chapter-1)
> 
> ii. [weapon primer: the sword (europe)](https://howtofightwrite.tumblr.com/post/55669518061/weapon-primer-the-sword-europe#notes)
> 
> **me:** frankly this was supposed to be shorter, like only 1k
> 
> **hubert, *raising his hand***: suddenly i want to talk about my feelings
> 
> **me:** oh for the love of—
> 
> addendum: i suppose these are equivalent to my calling card come chat with me there if you like  
[tumblr](https://qserasera.tumblr.com/) || [twitter](https://twitter.com/mallory_madder)


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